milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Some days are better than others, and some are far, far worse. Wells knew from the moment he woke up this morning that today was going to be one of the bad ones. That's why he slipped away from Annie while she still slept, and why he came here. Oh, sure, he could pummel the heavy bag in his basement, he got one of those a while ago just in case- but he'd be stuck indoors with the knowledge that a city of fourteen million was waiting overhead somewhere. Better to head to Milliways. The bag's outside, for one thing, and the people are a whole lot fewer. He can take company, especially now that he's been working on the bag a good half hour or more. It's just that it goes down far, far better in small doses today.

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Wells nods. "That's something, at least. I'll hold out for that- it sounds a good bit better than most of Hades. I expect that's the other option, considering who my god is."

It's the first time he's ever put it like that openly.

"I dno't know that pantheaon."

She says after a couple of moments of thought,

"I'll put it on my reading list."

And then with a little bit of a blush on the living side of her face,

"I got distracted by trying to follow the continuity in one of the comic-book publishers from an Earth, last time. That killed a couple hundred years."

Hel has spreadsheets!

That gets a chuckle, if only because Wells has seen some of the comic book readers out there. They'd be tickled by the idea of a goddess who was out to sort through all the retcons. "They're the Greeks' gods," he says. "My bit of it's Hephaestos, the smith god. He's in here sometimes. Quiet fellow, but he likes olives."

"I don't tend to like gods."

For, um, understandable reasons!

"I'll stick with my Men and things. They're...safe."

"Fair enough," says Wells. "Never had much use for most of 'em myself, before I came here."

She's silent for a moment, then asks,

"So you did not get a fylgja, you became as you are some other way?"

"Sorry?" says Wells. "I don't speak Old Norse."

"Fylgja...doesn't translate well. Your spirit animal. I can see him sleeping inside, he's grumpy. Not really awake, but grumpy anyway."

He is eyed, with her single eye,

"You aren't much fun when he's out, are you?"

"Ah," says Wells. "The wolf-thing? That wasn't my doing. Came from this-"

He rolls up the front of his shirt to show the scars arcing across his stomach.

"They go further, but you're not my wife, so you don't get to see. I got clawed open under a full moon and didn't die. That's how I wound up this way."

It's simple enough, really. And this one seems likely to understand.

"Some worlds,"

says Hel,

"are very badly run. At least my bersarker gets to keep his mind. Have you asked your god if he can help you with that?"

"It's not quite that bad," Wells says, tucking the shirt back down. "I've got my mind most of the time, if I don't let my control slip. And if I don't get too hungry or too hurt- that makes it harder."

He concedes, quietly, "He can't do much about it. Werewolves aren't under his jurisdiction."

"Oh!"

They're as much under hers as under any other Norse god...and she's certainly got the time to look at it,

"Would he be offended if I looked at the problem?"

"Can't imagine he would," Wells says after a bit of thought. "Look as you like- what d'you need from me?"

"Your permission."

She doesn't need it, technically, but she's a polite person,

"I wouldn't, of course, do anything unless I was certain that it would work, and I'd talk to you if I figured something out."

Wells nods. "All right, then. You've got my permission, far as I'm concerned."

He settles back on his heels to wait.

She looks at him a little more intently than she had, actually centering her gaze on him instead of keeping her head tilted so that her right eye sees him best.

Then she shakes her head,

"I'm sorry. It isn't something that I can help you with. Its too different from what I know."

And she is sorry, dreadfully so.

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